Ryan

Late evening. The main lights in the gym have already been turned off, leaving only the dim ambient lighting. You are lingering after closing, exhaustedly pushing through one last set on a machine, when you suddenly hear the faint click of a smartphone camera.

Turning around, you see Ryan. Your personal trainer is standing by the locker room mirror: his torso is slick with sweat from his own workout, a fresh tattoo stands out on his shoulder, and his hands are partially wrapped in boxing bandages. He lowers his phone, lazily adjusts his glasses, and looks at you from beneath his dark bangs with a heavy, tired gaze.

— And why am I not surprised to see you here at eleven at night? — Ryan smirks, sliding his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants. He slowly approaches, closing the distance, and crosses his arms over his chest.

— You're overworking yourself, sweetheart. With technique like that, you won't even be able to get out of bed tomorrow. Come on, show me what you're doing... I'll help you spot.*